


this eternal flame of mine

by joanofarcstan



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Idiots in Love, Light Dom/sub, M/M, My First Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Self-Indulgent, as all my works are, but that's ok, soft silvergifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24598678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanofarcstan/pseuds/joanofarcstan
Summary: annatar(quenya, compound word): lord of giftsand he himself is the first among them.—how do you know what love is when you feel it?the truth is that you do not, and you must learn it.
Relationships: Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar
Comments: 14
Kudos: 70





	this eternal flame of mine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Offering](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070605) by [ancient_moonshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancient_moonshine/pseuds/ancient_moonshine). 



> If you haven't read the Yacië series and this sort of fic is your jam, go read it! It's amazing! ~~I totally did not read it over and over again when writing this~~

Annatar is beautiful when he breaks, Celebrimbor thinks. When he tells him so, a shudder runs through Annatar’s body.

"Exquisite," Celebrimbor murmurs. He runs a hand down the length of Annatar’s spine, lets it come to rest in the dip of his lower back, just above his hips. "You take me so well." He punctuates this last with a slow thrust, and Annatar gasps, that voiceless cry that Celebrimbor has learned so well to pull from him.

Annatar’s skin glows gold in the candlelight, shadows dancing on it in short-lived patterns, ephemeral as the Sea's moods. He trembles beneath Celebrimbor's hands, his mouth, muffling his cries in the sheets when Celebrimbor rolls his hips again.

That will not do, Celebrimbor thinks, nipping lightly at Annatar's shoulder blade. "Don't hide." He trails kisses down soft skin, over the ridges of Annatar's spine. "Let me hear you." He smooths his palms over Annatar's back, brushes a thumb over the bruise forming at his shoulder blade, presses another kiss between them.

And Annatar obeys; his cries break around Celebrimbor's ears, soft, wavering, achingly vulnerable, even in voice alone. He sings a wordless song of trust, of surrender. Of joy in surrender. Like music, Celebrimbor thinks through the haze of pleasure, of Annatar's heat, his yielding body. A music older, sweeter, purer than Arda.

Beneath him, Annatar's breath hitches, and something close to a sob wrings itself from his throat. "My lord—"

Ah, that is something Celebrimbor will never get used to through all the Ages of Arda: how Annatar offers himself up so eagerly, names him lord so instinctively, lets Celebrimbor claim him so utterly. "Annatar. My love," Celebrimbor breathes, letting his body cover Annatar's so they are pressed together, with not an inch of space between them. Annatar lets a breath out at that, a breath Celebrimbor would wager he didn't know he was holding. "What do you need?"

Annatar shakes his head, golden hair spilling over his shoulders, over white sheets. The contrast—although perhaps it is not so much a contrast as a complement of colours, a symbol of a simple purity and innocence still unstained, that cannot be stained by such things of a worldly nature—is as striking as seeing Annatar’s eyes for the first time, a molten gold so close to liquid fire it is unsettling. But he does not answer, so Celebrimbor does not press him, only picks up the pace, punishingly gentle, and returns to mapping Annatar's back with his mouth.

It seems to be what Annatar needs, because his cries ring out anew and his voice breaks when he calls out to Celebrimbor. "Thank you— _Master—_ " he whispers, the words uneven and rough under the tender onslaught.

This too he will never cease to marvel at: how Annatar seems to trust him so effortlessly to take care of him, to give him what he needs, to be what he needs. He yields so easily, so willingly that Celebrimbor sometimes thinks that perhaps this is in his nature, and he is simply lying to himself about it.

(Celebrimbor suspects that Annatar is not of this world, and indeed, if he is of the Maiar… Celebrimbor remembers that the old tales say a Maia without a master is lost.)

But for now, he is content to have Annatar like this: to watch the candlelight play on his skin, glory in the tight heat of his body, revel in the small, choked sound he makes at a particularly deep thrust.

It is different from their first time, when Celebrimbor had looked up from his work to find Annatar staring at him, his eyes a ruin of molten gold and fire. (Celebrimbor had thought, in a moment of mad heresy, that if this was not the Flame Imperishable, then it must not exist.) Then, by some strange sequence of events that he cannot recall, Celebrimbor had kissed him, pressed him against the wall, and fucked him right then and there, fast and hard, all the world sensation as Celebrimbor had lost himself in the feeling of slamming into Annatar’s willing body, the sharp yet sweet pain of Annatar’s fingernails digging into his shoulders, the cries of _please, Tyelpë, please—_ that had brought him to claim Annatar’s mouth again in a fierce, possessive kiss, one that said _mine_ and made Annatar come untouched, Celebrimbor buried to the hilt inside him.

Annatar still bears the marks of that first coupling: fading fingerprints on his hips where Celebrimbor had held him up against the wall, bruises decorating the graceful, pale column of his throat, his collarbone. No doubt Celebrimbor has red scratches on his own skin, half-healed, from when Annatar had clawed helplessly at his back through his own climax.

No, this time is different. This time, Celebrimbor had taken Annatar’s face between his hands and kissed him, long and soft and lingering, with all the passion and longing of a thousand years, leaving Annatar shaking when they finally broke for air. Annatar’s hands had wound through his hair, making him sigh against that sweet mouth. And he could have spent one eternity or a thousand like that, looking down on Annatar’s face, tracing the planes of his cheekbones, nose, jaw, kissing him senseless, cradling him in his arms, but he had seen the pleading in Annatar’s eyes, the need for more. So this time, Celebrimbor had turned him over onto his front and taken the time to prepare him properly, to draw it out until Annatar was a whimpering, begging mess, pushing his hips back to meet Celebrimbor’s fingers.

Excruciating tenderness. That is how it is this time, as Celebrimbor takes him slowly, desperately slowly, feathering kisses everywhere on Annatar’s back, whispering praise and devotion to him.

Annatar shakes. He cries, no, weeps, tears no doubt wetting the sheets, tracking down his face—and oh, how Celebrimbor wishes he could see that, see how every thrust to that sweet spot brings a fresh round of tears.

There will be time enough for that later, he tells himself. For now, he focuses on this beautiful, sensitive work of shattering Annatar and putting him back together. He wonders if this is a form of what Melkor sought, this unmaking and remaking with loving hands, then discards the thought, for Melkor sought to control his things, while Celebrimbor seeks only to love his Annatar.

(His father might ask if they are such different things, but here in Eregion Celebrimbor is beholden to no father; and he knows his uncle Finrod would agree that they are very different.)

"Is this what you need?" Celebrimbor asks softly, hitting Annatar's sweet spot on every fearfully gentle thrust. For a long moment, Annatar does not respond except through quiet, needy sounds in time with Celebrimbor's motion, so Celebrimbor just brushes away the golden hair spilling over Annatar's back to suck another mark into the juncture of shoulder and neck.

Then there is an answer, and perhaps Celebrimbor should call this point Annatar's breaking: "My lord— _Master—_ " Annatar's ragged cry swells, breaks like waves on the shores of the Havens as he comes.

It seems an eternity, like the thousands of minutes and hours blending together as crystalline grains of sand trickling through an hourglass, before Celebrimbor regains enough mental capacity to find himself lying on his side, Annatar cradled in his arms like the precious gift to the world—Celebrimbor's bliss-drunk mind gives a little giggle at that; Lord of Gifts indeed, and Annatar is the first among them—he is. Celebrimbor's hands move of their own accord, stroking Annatar's hair, his shoulders, his back until his trembling subsides.

"Beautiful," Celebrimbor murmurs, just to see Annatar's little shudder at the word as he remembers what Celebrimbor said earlier. He pushes Annatar's bright hair away from his face with his nose, pressing butterfly kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, nuzzling at last into his hair.

Annatar presses a distracted kiss to Celebrimbor's collarbone, buries his face in his neck. "I—I have never felt anything like this before," he whispers against Celebrimbor's skin, breath coming in sharp little puffs of air.

Celebrimbor pulls him closer, holds him tighter, fingers carding through his hair. Annatar lets out a shaky breath, but says nothing. "What do you feel?" Celebrimbor asks.

Annatar sighs and shakes his head. "Light… warmth… like I… I want to give you everything." He pulls away just a little so he can look up into Celebrimbor's eyes. When he speaks, his voice is small, so small, and he blinks as if afraid to hold Celebrimbor's gaze, yet unable to tear his eyes away. "Is this what love feels like?"

Oh, he is so vulnerable, so innocent in this at least that Celebrimbor's heart aches and he brings his hand to Annatar's face. Annatar flinches but does not object, so Celebrimbor lets his knuckles brush over Annatar's cheek, and answers, "Perhaps." He takes a breath. "Annatar, my love—when I called you that, I did not mean it idly."

The range of emotion—uncertainty, awe, fear, determination, maybe even love, Celebrimbor cannot tell—that flashes through Annatar's eyes leaves him breathless. He revises his description of Annatar's eyes: still molten gold, liquid fire; but more than that: like Anar rising over the Sea, casting a fiery light over silver glass.

(It still does not do justice to the imperishable, unquenchable flame of Annatar's eyes.)

Later, he will take Annatar again, this time with Annatar on his back, legs raised over Celebrimbor’s shoulders so he can see that fair face twist in the throes of pleasure, can brush the tears away with his fingers or kiss them away. Either would have Annatar trembling again beneath him, gasping in rhythm to Celebrimbor’s thrusts. And his eyes… oh, his eyes… Annatar’s eyes will be a ruin of expression: rivers of flaming gold unveiled, begging silently for Celebrimbor’s passion, then closing in bliss as Celebrimbor buries himself as deep as he can inside Annatar, crushing the space between their bodies and kissing him, soft and lingering, yet possessive.

“Mine,” he will declare against Annatar’s mouth, and Annatar will give a broken cry, throwing his head back to bare the column his throat, already marked by Celebrimbor's lips and teeth.

“Yours, my lord—my master—” he will answer, shuddering beneath Celebrimbor as he comes, mouth open in a silent cry.

Then Celebrimbor will push Annatar’s legs back toward his chest, bending him almost in half, and pound into him harder, deeper than before, Annatar’s overstimulated cries sweeter than any music to Celebrimbor's ears. And Celebrimbor will remind him that he is beautiful like this, and Annatar will shatter again, throw an arm over his eyes, until Celebrimbor slows his pace to a slow, lazy glide and tells Annatar to look at him.

Annatar will look. It will not even occur to him to disobey an order from his master. Yes, Annatar will meet his eyes, and Celebrimbor will smile at that fair face whose planes are softer in the candlelight, giving him an ethereal glow, and kiss him again, no less tenderly than before. Annatar will cling to him, arms winding around his neck, fingers scrabbling helplessly at his shoulders. He will yield, letting Celebrimbor plunder his mouth as he fucks him slowly. His breath will hitch as Celebrimbor rocks his hips, his cock catching on Annatar’s rim, rubbing against that sensitive spot inside him that blows his eyes wide, makes his lips part and fall into a perfect ‘o.’

There will be time enough for that later, Celebrimbor thinks to himself. For now, he cradles Annatar close, like a precious, fragile gift, and kisses away the uncomprehending tears that trickle down Annatar’s face.

“I—I think this is love,” Annatar whispers to him, so small, so vulnerable, averting his eyes. His voice cracks. “I just—I don’t know how.”

Celebrimbor does not know if he means _I don’t know how to love you,_ or _I don’t know how to tell what love feels like,_ or _I don’t know how I know,_ or something else entirely, but it doesn’t really matter right now, so Celebrimbor just shushes him gently and holds him closer, placing a kiss on the crown of his head.

Moments pass in silence, broken only by the soft puff of Annatar’s breath against Celebrimbor’s neck. (This too is a question for him: Do Maiar truly need to breathe? It is something he will have to find out. Later.) Then Annatar is surging up to kiss him, hard and desperate and bruising, and Celebrimbor rolls them over so Annatar is pinned beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist.

And looking down on him, there is a different, special vulnerability shining in Annatar’s eyes, here where Celebrimbor can watch his face. It is a searing need to please, to offer himself up to Celebrimbor and serve as Celebrimbor wishes him to. It is tender. It is, maybe, love.

Celebrimbor reaches down to thumb at Annatar’s cheekbone, brush over his lips. “I would have you again,” Celebrimbor says softly, running his other hand along Annatar’s flank, his hip, coming to rest on his thigh. “Like this.”

Annatar watches him, parts his lips. His eyes are bright, and Celebrimbor knows he is afraid, afraid to give himself so wholly and let Celebrimbor break him and put him back together as he pleases; and not for the first time, Celebrimbor wonders what pain Annatar has felt to make him fight so against his very nature.

(It has crossed Celebrimbor’s mind before that perhaps this is the first time Annatar has willingly given himself to someone, and although he always dismisses it, the mix of need and fear in Annatar’s wide eyes makes him think of it again.)

Then Annatar breathes out and nods minutely, as if he doesn’t trust his voice to remain steady. He lets Celebrimbor arrange him as he pleases, sighs, eyes half-closed as Celebrimbor enters him once more.

From there, it is as Celebrimbor planned, except that at the end, when Annatar is once more cradled in his arms, Annatar raises his tear-streaked face to meet Celebrimbor’s gaze. His eyes are a ruin of molten gold, of a thousand wildfires forged into one imperishable flame. His voice is raw and so very small, but so very certain when he speaks. “This is love.”

Celebrimbor kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> so, penny (or ring) for your thoughts? (or come talk to me on tumblr at laurierliberal!) hope you liked it! thanks for reading!


End file.
